


It's not like you can forget the words

by megyal



Category: Fall Out Boy
Genre: Amnesia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-10-03
Updated: 2008-10-03
Packaged: 2017-10-29 12:54:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,041
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/320102
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/megyal/pseuds/megyal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick wakes up to a life he's forgotten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not like you can forget the words

Patrick manages to peel open his eyelids, squinting at the pain throbbing at the back of his skull and the brilliant sunlight streaming into his eyes. There's this... this skinny dude sitting beside him, staring at him intently, all big brown eyes and a lot of dark hair and a really, _really_ worried expression.

"Oh god," the guy murmurs; he leans back and puts his hands over his face, exhaling against his palms in that noisy way people do when they've been kind of holding their breath and hoping for something. Patrick realizes that he's in a hospital, or he's in a hospital _bed_ at least; so he can logically conclude that this _is_ a hospital, but he can't remember how he got here. Ok, so he's not going to panic. Did he fall down the steps at school again? Those steps are _crazy_ , like all crooked and stuff; the last time he stumbled down them, he'd twisted his ankle and Sam Kellier from his chemistry class had given him a ride home, which was awesome of Sam, even though Sam hung around with the jocks nowadays... not that Patrick _minded_ , it wasn't Sam's fault that Patrick's body was forgetting a certain little thing called a growth spurt and stuff like that, and it wasn't Sam's fault that Patrick wasn't anybody cool or special. Not that he's _aiming_ for cool and special, but you know.

So maybe he's panicking a little. He feels like his stomach is trying to turn itself inside out, and his head is apparently being used as a bass-drum.

"Um," he croaks and clears his throat at the embarrassing sound. A nurse bustles in, goes, "Oh! He's awake!" and rushes back out. Oh, ok, so, _apparently_ , Patrick has been snoozing in a hospital. Patrick's been known to snooze in the oddest places, his mother says that someone is going to _steal_ him one day, just make off with him, because of Patrick's unfortunate talent at going to sleep just about anywhere. But maybe a hospital is taking things a little too far.

"Here." A glass of water floats across his fuzzy vision, and Patrick stares at the hand holding it, turning his head to look down an arm that has more colourful tattoos than skin. He follows the crazy arm to a face that is even _crazier_ : bushy beard, expressionless eyes behind glasses. Patrick doesn't take the water, just blinks up at this other guy. There's something _familiar_ about him, and this familiarity tugs at the back of Patrick's mind, lurking there like when someone asks you about a song and the song creeps around the edge of your brain, gleefully eluding your attempts to drag it to the light.

"Patrick?" The guy that was peering down in Patrick's face now leans forward again, wrinkling his brow. He's familiar too, but Patrick closes his eyes, feeling a lot lost. "Are you--"

"Can you go away, or something?" Patrick pleads, squeezing his eyelids tightly as if that would help the situation. It does, just a little. "Where's my family? I don't know how I got here and I don't know _who you are_... at least, I _think_ I don't know, and it's kind of freaking me out."

* * *

When the doctor gently probes Patrick's sore head, then hems and haws and asks a bunch of questions before pronouncing Patrick to be suffering from amnesia, Pete, the dude with the brown eyes and the black hair spends about ten minutes arguing with a guy named Joe, who had been curled up on the other bed in the room, fast asleep when Patrick had woken up. Joe, whose hair is large and in-charge, was defensive and contrite in turns, coming over to Patrick and patting him on the shoulder awkwardly, saying, "Patrick, dude, seriously, I am so _sorry_ ," while Pete hisses, "He doesn't remember a thing! You think _sorry_ will help him remember?"

"How old are you, Patrick?" The doctor asks as he checks Patrick's reflexes; Patrick glances at Andy, who looks back steadily. He figures that Andy's eyes are not so much expressionless as much as they are very guarded, giving nothing away.

"Fifteen." Patrick notes the shocked expression that comes over everyone's faces; even Andy's eyes go wide. "What?"

"You're... not exactly fifteen." Joe's expression is guilty. "Fuck, I'll never throw another guitar again. _Ever_."

"You threw _a guitar_ at me?" Patrick knows his face is scrunched up in confusion; that can't be a good look on him. "Why would you do that, I don't even know you!"

"I didn't do it on purpose, the strap just broke! Fucking strap." Joe crosses his arms over his chest. "And dude, you know me."

"I don't." Patrick frowns and then jerks his chin towards Pete and Andy, which is a monumentally bad idea, for the ache in his poor head ramps up. "Ow. I know _them_. I've seen them around, I think I've been to some shows? I think. This band, I can't remember... oh yeah, Arma Something." He stares at Pete for a long time. "Shit, you're Pete Wentz."

The look that crosses Pete Wentz's face is a complex mix of amusement, exasperation and something that looks like _oh-man-you're-so-adorable_ , and Patrick throws a quick look over his own shoulder, to see who or what Pete Wentz might be looking at like that; again, he really needs to remember that his head is not prepared for any quick movements right now. Not at all.

Joe is pouting, and it's kind of comical, so Patrick gives him an apologetic little smile. "And I know Andy Hurley," _because Hurley is the shit_ , he nearly adds, but that would not be cool. Besides, Hurley looks a bit scarier than Patrick remembers, and maybe a gushing statement like that would not go over too well. Patrick's impression of Hurley, and it's just a very basic impression, nothing too deep, is that he might _eat_ Patrick if he made a wrong move. "But not you... I'm sorry?"

"It's alright," Joe sighs. "It's kind of my fault that the continuum in your head is all fucked up. I mean, I met you when you were a little older." He wrinkles his nose. "Or... younger. Than now. You get my point."

"Exactly how old am I?" Patrick asks cautiously, pressing his fingers to his temple. He pulled his hand away, looking closely at his fingers. They look different... stronger and more calloused than usual. "And... ok, what is it I _do_?"

"Twenty-four," Pete says and Patrick blinks at him. Pete nods. "You," and Pete looks over at Andy, who shrugs. "You play in a band with us," he finishes slowly. Patrick keeps blinking. "You're _Patrick Stump_."

He says that as if it's an amazing thing. "Yes," Patrick says, bewildered. "I'm just Patrick Stumph."

* * *

Patrick is a little tired of being dumbfounded.

"This, okay, this isn't my place," he tells Joe, who is helping him inside this reasonably-sized condo (a _condo_ ), pushing one of the dining-table chairs out of their way. Joe's arm is secure and warm around his waist, because Patrick is still unsteady on his feet; even though Patrick doesn't know much about this Joe dude, it feels pretty okay and comfortable. Patrick isn't a touchy kind of person, he never liked people apart from his family hugging him, but his body is leaning companionably against Joe, as if he's done this before, lurched around with one of these dudes close by. It's a strange sensation to feel like you know someone without really knowing them. "Wentz, look, this can't be my place."

"It is." Pete is roaming ahead and talking on his cell-phone; Patrick isn't sure who he's really responding to. Pete snaps his phone shut and grabs a small white remote attached to the wall, turning on the air-conditioning. He turns back with a large grin on his face, a little tight at the corners as he spreads his arms like a game-show host. "Welcome to your humble abode, Patrick Stump! This is your life!"

This _can't_ be Patrick's life. The place is large and open, a wide sliding door at the opposite end of living room leading out to a balcony. It's not as messy as he thought it would be, but there's a guitar hiding behind a large potted plant which obviously is in need of some water and some tender loving care, and there's an actual piano set right beside a small fireplace; there are a couple of congo drums as well. _Why would I need a fireplace in a LA condo?_ Patrick ponders, but that fleeting thought is followed by _why would I need a piano and congo drums?_

Why, indeed. Joe is helping him past the kitchen counter, where a cactus is flourishing and a small action figure (or maybe it's just a strange doll) is placed right in the pot itself, standing there with a big plastic sneer. Patrick stops and gazes at it for a long while, before Joe tugs him gently into what seems to be his bedroom, which is a lot messier than the living room. The bed is made, but there are piles of CD's packed at the end of a paper-filled desk; one stack has actually collapsed, discs strewn across bills and crumpled notes. Patrick goes still, for placed behind these discs, propped against the wall almost carelessly, is a gold album in a large frame. Beside it is a _platinum_ one and now Patrick can hardly breathe.

This is not his life. He's just some kid from Glenview, and he's having the most vivid dream ever and in a moment he's going to wake up and Kevin is going to be standing up over his bed, probably with a cup of cold water to pour in his ear or something. Hurley is turning down the covers of the bed and he glances up at Patrick.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, sure!" Patrick says a little loudly and then tones it way down. "I'm freaking out just a bit, though, I don't know if you can tell. Maybe you can? Cause you guys know me well, I mean, if we've been touring and working together, you'd know if I was freaking out or not. See, the thing is--"

"It's gonna be cool, Patrick," Andy cuts in with a small smile, tucking his hair behind his ears. He looks less prone to consuming Patrick whole, and this is a good thing. "The doctor said it might be temporary, so we're just going to watch you, relax. Kevin's going to be here soon, so when he comes and you want us to leave, we'll leave."

Patrick feels panic crash over him and struggles against it. He's fifte-- he's twenty-four, oh god, _twenty-four_ , and he's not going to burst into tears like a kid, no matter how close he feels to it. He tugs self-consciously at the knitted cap perched on his head, taking strange strength from the action."No, no, it's fine. You don't have to go... if, if you don't want to. Like, I'm sure you have other things to do, you know?"

"Like what?" Pete's on his phone again, but he moves it away from his face, furrowing his brow in Patrick's direction. "Like _what_ , Patrick?"

Pete Wentz is kind of an aggressive bastard; Patrick is not sure he likes him. Yet, from a quick gaze around his room, he (or the person he is at twenty-four) _does_ like Wentz, for there's a photo of him right there on the wall, kind of a funky pop-art thing that is mostly in black and white, except that his eyes are in their full natural colour, a deep honey. There's also one of Hurley and one of Joe, and Patrick himself, a group of crazy photos arranged near the door that leads to his bathroom. Patrick thinks he looks really distant in his, eyes focusing at some point far behind whoever is taking the photo; his hair is the highlighted focus, sandy-red and strangely bright compared to the monochromatic background. His face is rounder... but at least the sideburns flourished, nice.

"I don't know," Patrick finally snaps at Pete, feeling testy and tired and more lost than ever before. "Like, you can go talk to those people you've been yammering at since we've been driving from the hospital."

" _These people_ are from the label," Pete points out, but he sounds amused. "And friends that are worried about you." He smiles suddenly at Patrick, who doesn't know whether to be comforted or suspicious of such an expression on his face. "Shit, it's like going back in time, man," Pete muses with that same soft grin and Patrick decides to stick with _suspicious_.

* * *

Patrick wakes up with a song in his head and he hums it before he realizes what he's doing. His brother is in the bed with him, a solid Stumph-shape curled up on top of the covers. Kevin had arrived a few hours ago, folding Patrick into a rare and genuine hug before bullying Patrick to take his painkillers and get some rest. Patrick hums a few more lines of the song and Kevin mumbles, "Jeez, Patrick, come _on_ ," before rolling over and putting a pillow over his head.

Patrick slides out of the bed, and slips out towards the door, hoping it's the main exit of his bedroom and not the one that leads to the bathroom. He emerges into the living room, the breakfast counter on his left. The light in the small kitchen is on and so is the television in the living room, illuminating Pete with a wash of muted light. Pete is slouched in the sofa, wrapped up in a hoodie. Hoodies seem to be his uniform, Patrick notes. Pete's eyes are wide and sleepless and he blinks at Patrick, who leans against the counter and awkwardly scratches the ankle of one foot with the toes of the other.

"Hey," Pete says and motions to him. "Joe and Andy are crashing in your guest room. Come on, sit down, it's your couch."

"I was singing something," Patrick tells him as he takes a seat. He starts as Pete cuddles up close, slinging his arm around Patrick's soft belly and settling against him like a large, domineering cat. Pete's face is set close, his eyes fixed on Patrick's wide ones and something floats through the confused tangle of his mixed-up brain: _the thing about your eyes is that they see more than people think_.

He repeats this out loud and Pete smiles up at him, looking pleased. "You've said that to me before. Maybe you're remembering again?"

Patrick shrugs, a little speechless with Pete's proximity. How does he ever get used to this? How does twenty-four year old Patrick get accustomed to someone like Pete, constantly up in his face?

"What were you singing?" Pete asks with surprising gentleness when Patrick remains quiet.

"Oh, yeah, it goes like--" and he launched into something low and slightly haunting: _the road underfoot is certain to become the road behind... one day I'll stay home_. He actually folds his lips in when he finishes that line, shocked at how his voice sounds.

It's... it's _lovely_. He's only ever heard his mother use a word like that, maybe in reference to someone's garden, or something, but his voice sounds too good to be coming from his throat, sultry and low and strong.

Pete is laughing lightly, gazing right into Patrick's face. "Amazing, right? Hey, maybe this is a good thing. Now you hear yourself how we hear you."

Patrick looks away, blushing. "Is that something I've sang before?" He pauses, staring at the television which had Conan on, laughing with his ridiculous shock of red hair. "Or is it something... new, like, did I just make it up?"

"No, it's not new." Pete is still smiling at him. "But, you know, it's new to you _now_ , so that's kind of awesome."

Singing that one melancholy line kind of... unlocked something. Patrick blinks at the television, licks his lips, and sings something else.

* * *

When he sings _last night I saw my world explode_ , a bright image snaps into his mind, so vivid he can almost taste the coffee that is being sold in that faraway Borders, and he remembers Joe's frown as Patrick interrupts a conversation with his friend, he _remembers_ , oh man, _yes_. As the line _there's a light on in chicago_ stampedes up out of him, the sturdy K of C hall that they spent so much time in floats up in his mind's eye and then what began as a trickle becomes a waterfall of sights and sounds and years, tumbling and crashing through him.

Patrick closes his eyes.

"I'm Patrick Stump," he says slowly and feels Pete's smile curling against his cheek. Pete, warm and skinny and _here_ , right here. Just the way it's meant to be, and it would have been a fucking shame if Patrick would never had been able to remember such perfection as this.

"You're _Patrick Stump_ ," Pete affirms with a tight hug. "Say it like you fucking _mean_ it, man."

"I'm Patrick motherfucking _Stump_ ," Patrick says with a snort of laughter and then they are both snickering hard enough to draw Kevin out of the room, who blinks at them owlishly and says, "Oh, obviously he's back under your spell, Wentz," before staggering back to bed.

Pete dashes tears of mirth from his eyes, but his wide grin at Patrick still seems a little watery. "Welcome back. Not that fifteen-year-old you isn't welcome anytime, but I was kind of reliving the pedo jokes, and it wasn't a lot of fun the second time around in my head, you know?"

Pete's voice sounds really muted and Patrick turns his head, looking at his contemplative expression. On impulse, he presses a chaste kiss to Pete's cheek.

"That was from fifteen-year-old Patrick," he explains as Pete's eyes go wide. "And this," he says, leaning close again, "is from Patrick, _now_."

Pete's little noise as Patrick kisses him right on the mouth is kind of gratifying, and Patrick shows him all he remembers; besides, Patrick figures he has _years_ to make up for.


End file.
